Forgotten Ones
by star wars for Jesus
Summary: Commissioned by Lord Vader himself to bring down a rogue Jedi, Captain Rex finds himself on a planet which stirs up memories of The Clone Wars.


"Past reason hunted and, no sooner had,

Past reason hated."—Shakespeare

"I never imagined it'd be like this," comments Cody, arms folded as he stands at my shoulder. "Or at least they never trained us for this."

Helmet tucked under my arm, I let my gaze explore the panorama of dilapidated buildings, waste-filled streets, and gaunt, empty-eyed beings. This world—a planet known as Cercan, was once the bustling center of commerce within its star system, supplying fuel, textiles, and other resources to nearly every planet within six parsecs, was once healthy and full of life. But after the Clone Wars had begun ravaging the galaxy, drowning the Republic in a vat of its own hot, sticky blood, the world had been under Separatist occupation…and nearly choked to death.

Except you can't you really label things in terms of Republic and seppies any longer. Not since the Empire, anyway. Now we're were all under one head, one title, one vision that was supposed to unite the galaxy, bring it together in gleeful harmony—and we're meant to like it. Otherwise, you're seen as an enemy of the Emperor, a shriveled, craven old man that was once Chancellor Palpatine, bringing the wrath of the Imperial Army on your doorstep.

And that means Vader rears his faceless head, too.

Vader…now there's an enigma. No one—not even higher officers like myself—know where he's from, much less who he is. All we do is that he's a tall, broad-shouldered being garbed in all black, without even inch of skin showing. That he's some sort of ghastly cyborg, a mesh of living being and machine eerily similar to the late General Grievous, his chest riddled with knobs and valves and other life support gizmos. We know that he might not have a face, that if he does, it's been lost behind that angular, jet black mask and helmet he wears; and we know that if he has a voice, it's been consumed by that mask as well. The only thing you'll ever hear from Vader is a synthesized, mechanical cacophony, issuing straight from a vocoder we all think has been implanted in his throat.

That is, if he _has_ a throat.

Scary thing is, everyone seems to trust Vader. They seem to respect him—it—hold him in a regard they would've once only reserved for Jedi Generals. Heck, I think the men, my men, LIKE this creature, are willing to go and bleed out on some force-forsaken rock if it means pleasing him. If he's even still capable of pleasure.

None of this really matters, though, what I might think or believe. It's Vader's word, Vader's orders, that should be my lifeblood. Vader's thoughts that should be mine. And it's Vader's wishes that I'm here, up to my ankles in stale urine and coagulated blood. That I'm here, on Cercan.

Again.

Two Years Earlier

"…We can't allow this system to just slip from our grasp," General Skywalker is saying, his deep timbre echoing throughout the entire war room. He leans over a holo-table, points to some throbbing red blip. "You see this? There's a connection here, a tie to an entire system of worlds under its control. Add it back to the Republic, and we not only deliver a decisive blow to the Seps, but we regain control of the Mid-Rim."

Beside me, General Kenobi is idly stroking his beard, frowning at Skywalker from underneath his beetled brow. They're friends, these two, inseparable as bone and marrow, and everyone in the war room knows it. Master Yoda, a tiny, wizened green alien hovering on some sort of repulsor seat before the holo-table; General Windu, the intense, dark-skinned man brooding next to Kenobi; and everyone else can see the ties that bind. Know that if they want to dissuade Skywalker from undertaking this mynoc-brained scheme, they'll have to dissuade Kenobi, too.

Skywalker must notice his friend's dour expression, because he hesitates a bit, stands there with a finger poised over another blip. He meets the bearded Jedi's gaze, just for a second, and you can tell from the set of his jaw that he's not giving in. Not for his friend, his men, or anything. He's given his word, written up some invisible contract in his heart, so by-the-force, he's not going back on it. Period.

Skywalker cants his head. "You have something you'd like to add, Master?"

The older Jedi's frown deepens. "No, but I would like to point out that this venture would be costly. We're talking an entire fleet of Jedi Cruisers, thousands of clone troopers, and countless munitions and supplies. And for what? So we slaughter our ranks by sending them to world we've tried and failed to save in the past?" He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Anakin, but I can't sanction anything like this. Especially after we lost so many men on Bakura."

"We lost a lot of men on Ryloth," Skywalker points out. His gaze rests on me, brazen and unblinking. "Rex and Cody lost a lot of men on Ryloth, I should say. It was their men who fought that battle for us, who bled to free a people we thought we'd lost to Separatist occupation. Maybe we should be asking THEM if they'd like to sanction this." His eyes go hard as he adds stiffly, "Obi-Wan."

Windu's shaven brow angles in a 'v'. "With all due respect, neither Captain Rex or Commander Cody are in any position to make judgments on this matter, Skywalker. It would be an upset in protocol, to the chain of command—"

"Well, maybe it NEEDS to be upset!" Skywalker retorts, rounding on the taller Master. "Hasn't it ever occurred to anyone—anyone of you at all—that excluding men like Rex from major military decisions might be the reason why we lost so many men on Bakura? If he or Cody had known what kind of opposition we faced going into that battle, we might be standing here today with cleaner hands!"

A quick throb of emotion pulses through my chest, forming a lump in my tightening throat. Bakura wasn't merely a battle. The hands of the Jedi Council—they weren't just dirty, weren't simply stained for a little while. Their entire hands—their fingers, their palms, even under their fingernails—are caked with blood, coated in the black, crusty goop of what was once men. Thousands of men, brave ones who went willingly to a pointless death.

Five weeks after our victory at Bakura, the planet slipped back into Separatist control.

For the first time since the meeting began, Kenobi is studying me, his quiet, blue-grey eyes searching my face. I guess he knows what I'm feeling, or he's picking it up with that creepy force-sense all Jedi have, the eerie third eyes that rove through other's emotions. Through thoughts, even. "Captain, do you…understand what Anakin's asking of you? What we're asking?"

I swallow, attempt to banish the mass from my throat. "Yes, General. I do."

Skywalker's features relax. "Then you want to have some say in this, Rex?"

"I do, sir. And I'm saying that you should count the cost."

Two Months Earlier

Blasterfire rains around me as I blindly charge through Bakura's thick jungles, my head pounding from an inward pulse. Mortar rounds consume the air; the sound's so concussive, reverberates so loudly that I've long since been lost in a soundless daze. I can't tell whether or not I'm alone, abandoned by the comrades I thought were on my heels till I crane my neck around, spot the shape of a lone figure struggling behind me.

The shape is thin, wiry, its waist no thicker than half of mine, and it has a ruddy hue. No—more than ruddy. Red. A deep, rusty scarlet, contrasting starkly with the being's vibrant white and indigo head-tails.

A togruta.

"Commander Tano!" I call, slowing my already flagging gate to a limp. This jungle, all verdant and teeming with life, hasn't been very kind to me. Shrapnel from mortars has pocked my body, slicing into my unarmored flesh with deadly accuracy. My neck, my arm pits, my lower back: it doesn't matter. Name a vulnerable spot, and it has metal shoved in it, with fresh blood oozing all around. "Are you…are…you injured?"

Ahsoka trots up beside me, her breath coming out in ragged gasps. She's young—too young, in my opinion, to be in the midst of this hell. Fourteen-year-olds….they should be home, wasting time and giggling over their new crushes. Not dodging mortars and who-knows-what-else.

"I'm fine," she mouths, even though I can tell she isn't. She's pale, too pale, and there's a clammy sheen of sweat coating her forehead. Bits of shrapnel—twisting metal, the wooden splinters of shattered jungle trees—are lodged in more vital areas on her body than on mine; it only takes a cursory glance to see that her legs, torso, and back have taken some bad hits. As she leaps and twists around a spreading tree trunk, I catch a glimpse of a nasty gash that's torn nearly to her spine, the flesh raw and weeping with pinkish plasma.

I grab her arm, force her to stop. "Commander, you're injured. Badly."

The girl just stares at me—through me—and I wonder for a moment if she's experiencing mortar-deafness, too. But then she tilts her head, twists about to take a look at her spine, and her eyes go round. She blanches, meeting my gaze before she sags to the ground, boneless.

As I collapse beside her, hitting the ground with what has to be a woody _crash_, I catch her mouthing something. To me, maybe, but without my sense of hearing, it's impossible to tell. So I just lean in, watch her lips form the same pattern of words. Over, and over, and over.

"What have we done?"

Present Day

If you knew me, you'd be able to understand how I can be so stoic after a battle has fizzled out. How I can look so cold, so numb, so disinterested when I'm really anything but. Why I won't shed a tear over a street painted with human and alien gore, when the stench of death itself is burning my nostrils and dead-men-and-women-walking are brushing my sides.

You'd know that long before I ever set foot on a battlefield, my heart had died.

"What a waste," Cody mutters, now pushing his way through the staggering throngs. "We're supposed to be at peace, what with the end of the War, but there are still places like this." Sighing shakily, he snaps his helmet back on. "They'll send us here on the tail of some rogue Jedi who's probably already offed herself in a motel room, yet they don't even think of sending some sort of relief envoy."

"She isn't dead," I reply stiffly.

Behind his t-visor, I know Cody must be raising a brow. He has to. I can read it in the cant of his head, the set of his shoulders. "Rex, I know you think that a lot of the Jedi were innocent, but it's time to face the facts: right when we needed the Jedi to end the war, they turned on the Republic. They weren't really pursuing peace; they were biding their time, waiting for a chance to stage a coup. They're cowards, the lot of them, and I wish I'd never met a single one."

"The Jedi DID end the war, Cody," I point out, a little too emphatically. "They killed Dooku, Grievous, and they made sure the Outer Rim held. None of them—especially not the younglings—deserved what they got."

Cody snorts. "Not even Skywalker? According to you, he's the one who led that whole massacre on the Temple. Maybe he deserved getting whacked by his friend."

"Kenobi wouldn't have killed him if he didn't think Skywalker had become an animal. You of all people should know."

"And I know that I was given orders to shoot the guy full of laser, so there. End of discussion." He draws in a short breath, rolls his shoulders a little. He seems guilty. Haunted by private ghosts. "Anyways, our target isn't one of those 'innocent Jedi' you insist exist: she's killed troopers. Dozens of them, just to save her sorry butt."

It's my turn to snort. "As if those troopers weren't trying to do her in first. You have to look at this from all angles, Cody, no matter how uncomfortable it is."

Two Years Earlier

Long after the meeting comes to a close, Skywalker is still here, starring listlessly at the flashing holo-table. Everyone—at least, nearly everyone—has already cleared out, leaving the room in a cloying silence. A thick one, charged with the tension and anger I see roiling through Skywalker's gaze, and it seems like an eternity goes by before someone decides to break it. Before Kenobi, who's been studying his friend's back intently, clears his throat.

Skywalker tenses, as if he was totally unaware of Kenobi's presence. Or my presence. Blinking, he scans the empty chamber, meets our eyes, then draws in a tight breath.

"We're going to be too late," he says simply.

And we know he's right. We really do. But somehow, despite the bitter ice of reality that's stinging our faces, we opt to ignore the truth, to bury in it happy lies and swallow it with a handful of artificial sweetener. We make it palatable, deluded, safe—and we smother it with a resource we don't even have.

Hope.

"Three more months aren't going to make much of a difference to the Cercani," Kenobi reasons, as if he can read the mile-long list of doubts scrolling through our minds. "After all, they've already been under Separatist occupation for six months; they've probably learned to eek out some sort of niche, a way to survive until help arrives."

Skywalker straightens, his gaze dead and gray. "And what if they haven't? What if—what if we're already too late, and most of them have already starved? Or worse: what if they've been enslaved by the Separatists, and they're wasting away under some sep tyrant's rule?"

The Jedi General's brows shoot up. "The Cercani aren't your—" He pauses, biting his lip. I can tell that he's looking at me, considering me out of the corner of his eye, and there's something about his expression that makes me feel as if I shouldn't be here. Like I should've waited outside, leaving them to talk freely about whatever it is that Kenobi can't say in front of me. "They aren't Shmi, Anakin."

I have no clue who "Shmi" is, but it elicits a visible reaction from Skywalker. "They could be."

"We don't know that for sure, Anakin. If the Council believed they could wait another three months before we intervene, then the planet must be able to do just that."

Something seems to snap in Skywalker, something hidden and long pent-up, and he suddenly comes to life. His gaze isn't dead anymore. He isn't still, listless, cold—he is on fire, blazing with some inner emotion. Overcome with it. Consumed by it as he rounds on Kenobi, teeth bared in a feral snarl.

"That's what you believed about her, too," he growls, suddenly looming over the shorter Jedi. "You wanted me to wait, to ignore my dreams—my NIGHTMARES—and pretend as if she was going to be fine. And we all know what happened with that, don't we, Master?"

Kenobi averts his eyes. "Anakin, please. Don't talk about—"

"Don't we?" he repeats more forcefully. "What happened to her, Obi-Wan?"

My mouth goes dry, making it impossible for me to even swallow in discomfort. This is my cue to leave, probably, to forget I ever saw this sort of rage blaring through Skywalker, and I start for the door. I try not to run, try not to look like some undisciplined shiny bolting for cover, but I'm afraid it turns out that way—thing is, who's gonna blame me? It wouldn't take a Jedi to see that Skywalker is teetering on the edge of a break-down, that he's inches away from releasing a devastating maelstrom.

Just as I reach the door, I hear Kenobi's answer: "She died."

Present Day

After about an hour's worth of walking the streets, Cody and I have reached a chain of dilapidated apartments. They're grungy, grey, their structures looking as if a puff of air would cause them to twist to the ground, and I think that it has to be empty. Then I see shapes moving about in various windows, either snapping their curtains closed or crowding around to gape at us, so I know that we've come to the right place. They'll have loose lips, these gaunt, wasting derelicts, will give us all the intel we need for a meager bag of credits.

Credits that won't even pay for a day's worth of meals.

"We're here on Imperial business," shouts Cody. His clipped tones remind me that whatever bond we might share, however well I think I know him, he's a soldier first. His loyalties…they don't begin with me. They begin—and they'll always end—with Vader. "Our intentions aren't to harm you; rather, we wish to offer…compensation…to whoever has information on a rogue Jedi."

Although I'm pretty certain most of them don't know what "compensation" really means, they rush out of their apartments nonetheless, surging forward like a hell-bent tsunami. It's overwhelming, being practically trampled by this throng of bone and ashen skin, but I know they wouldn't deliberately hurt either of us. They're simply doing what they have to in order to survive, to make it through the next hour without wasting away.

"Alright, alright," I say soothingly, gesturing for quiet. "Everybody settle down. We won't be able to learn anything worth your…compensation…if you keep carrying on."

An instant hush settles over the crowd.

I nod approvingly. "Thank you. Now, my friend here is going to show you all a picture. A picture of the Jedi we're after." I pause as Cody activates a mini holo-projector, trying not to react as the image come to blue life. It's disgusting, what we're doing. But we have no choice-not unless we want other, more Vader-loyal clones on her tail—so I continue. "If you think you might recognize her, I want you to raise your hand. Anyone who speaks out of turn will be immediately excused."

Almost instantaneously, someone's bony hand shoots up, and both Cody I stare her down. She's a tiny thing, shriveled almost to non-existence by hunger and malnutrition. Her hair is thin, unwashed, and although it's streaked with grey, I feel as though the face beneath the tangled mess is familiar. And maybe—just maybe—I catch a hint of recognition in her gaze as she studies my helmet, her brown eyes settling on its array of distinctive marks.

"I do," she shouts, sharp, tapering face a mask of hatred. "She's Ahsoka Tano."

Two Years Earlier

"So…this is where the fun begins."

The voice is Kenobi's, full of his trademark wry humor, and I turn. He's ambling up to me, eyes grim, mouth quirked in a half-smile, so I can't help a return it. I just have to, the expression turning fierce as the gravity of our situation takes hold.

"Yes, sir," I reply, grin fading. I make a broad, sweeping gesture that takes in all of the Jedi Cruiser's bridge. "We're standing by for orders. All of us."

Kenobi gives me a short nod. "Good. Now all we have to do is wait for Anakin to make another tardy arrival…" Plucking his beard, he frowns slightly. "This could take quite a while, I'm afraid. He's known to be distracted. By everything."

This elicits another smile. "I'm aware of the General's spotty focus, sir."

"Anyone who's shared the same room with him for five minutes would be aware of it, Captain."

Allowing myself to savor this moment of chummy banter, I let my gaze roam the bridge. I wasn't exaggerating when I said we were standing by: we're up and ready to go, with every conceivable station manned and accounted for. Clones in grey naval fatigues are seated at their controls, backs rigid as their minds delve into battle-mode; non-clone officers pace across the bridge's catwalk, hands clasped behind their backs in clinical, military fashion; and dozens of armored troopers—meat-cans, like me—flit by in snowy hoards. There's only a couple of Jedi to be seen, but it seems like every robed shape is accounted for. Even Skywalker's padawan, Ahsoka Tano, is padding up behind us, head-tails tossing about her thin shoulders.

"Good to have you onboard, Commander," I greet, unable to help the mirth that seeps into my tone. "You're just on time."

Ahsoka grimaces. "No thanks to Sky-er, my master. He's still in the situation room, arguing with Admiral Yularen."

Kenobi blinks. "In the Cruiser's situation room?"

She nods, head-tails dancing with the movement. "I think so, Master. I mean, that's where I last saw him and all, so…"

Lips pursed, Kenobi stares at something in the distance, an unreadable look painting his features. Then again, it might not be totally unreadable—at least, for someone other than me, anyway. I've always been a little behind in my Kenobi-ese, and since he's not the General of my company, I've never really had reason to brush-up. "When, exactly, did you last see him?"

Ahsoka glances at the ceiling, rolls her eyes around as if she's searching for nesting hawk-bats. "About ten-twenty minutes ago, I guess. And he didn't look like he was coming out of there anytime soon."

Kenobis nods, mutters "right", then he's off. Robes swishing about him, he sort of reminds me of a ghost—no, a wraith. Some sort of shadowy, ethereal creature of the night, slithering away to leave Ahsoka and I alone.

"It's crazy," she says, shaking her head, "that he's making us wait like this. Like, didn't we just wait for three months before they we could even do this? And now…" She faces me, nose screwed up. "This just doesn't seem like him."

Trying to look sage and Jedi Master-y, I just nod in response. Yes, it IS a little odd that Skywalker's balking. For three long months, he did nothing but agonize over Cercan and its destitute inhabitants, and now that we're given the go-ahead for the mission, he stalls for time. Not very Skywalker-like, if you ask me. Especially since his patience is so infamously short, he makes a bratty toddler look self-controlled by comparison.

"Maybe he and the Admiral are just going over some last-minute stuff," she goes on, playing with the end of one striped leeku. "You know, supplies and what-not. You never know how long it'll take to break a blockade, after all."

I nod again. "You're probably right, ma'am. It took us months just to clear the seppies out of Ryloth, not to mention the time it took to repair the major cities."

She makes a lemony face. "I wish you'd stop calling me ma'am."

"Hey, some of my dearest friends are 'ma'am's'," I mock protest, hands raised defensively.

She cants her head, considering me with those large, feline eyes. Of course, she's a togruta, and they've been described as being downright animalistic. Predatory. But still, it's a little unnerving, being locked with a gaze that's not quite human. Or something more than human, depending on your point of view. "And who are those dear friends, Rex?"

My eyes mist as I reply, "They're you."

Present Day

For some inexplicable reason, I'm finding it hard to keep from retching. Maybe it's all the unwashed bodies, pressing into us like a pack of ravenous gundarks. Or perhaps it's all the refuse, all the feces and urine and garbage that's piled about the building, heat rising off it in waves as it decomposes; I don't know, and I don't care. I don't think it even matters. All that does is that I've allowed my eyes to wander over to the poster of the Jedi, can make out every single inch of her features in stunning high definition.

Screwing my eyes shut for a second, I turn my attention back to the woman. The woman I vaguely recognize. The one we failed when we let Cercan slip from our grip. "You say you recognize her, ma'am?"

She nods sharply. "Yeah. I saw her yesterday, sneaking around in some alley. Might have some sort connections to the rebels."

Although we're both wearing our helmets, it doesn't stop us from sharing a glance. Rebels? Here? That sort of thing is supposed to be limited to the Outer Rim, where clods and back-waters are aimlessly pattering the Imperial Army with homemade weapons and third-generation blasters. Granted, this place isn't what you'd call pristine—the sewage standing in the streets is proof enough of that—but it's here, in the Mid-Rim. Close enough to planets like Alderaan or Naboo to have an impact on the Core.

"Who are these rebels, exactly?" Cody questions, an edge in his voice. "Do they have set leaders, places of operation?"

"Not that I know of," she answers tartly, that same, baleful look in her eyes. "At least, I'm not sure that have any headquarters or anything. They seem to hop around from place to place, like they're afraid staying around in one hole'll get them caught."

"But you do know of some leaders, right?" I prompt.

"You're looking at one of them," she retorts, and seemingly pulls a rifle out of thin air.

One Year Earlier

Orangey sunlight bathes me as I stand before Onderon's Justice building, gaze fixed on the dissolving crowd. Each of them has a place to go, a place to return to. The Jedi, who don't own much more than the clothes on their back, will retreat to their temple, to those six imperious, towering ziggurats that flash in the sun; the rebel leaders, to their homes in this ruggedly beautiful city; and I'll be off to the barracks. To my home, or what at least feels like it.

But she won't be returning. Ever. Her body, that shape I can just make out under the spotless burial linens, will be nothing but ashes, tossed about by whatever cruel wind decides to disturb her peace.

Stila Guarrera, heart of the Onderon rebellion, will return to the dust.

"This isn't over, you know that?" It's Ahsoka's voice, ragged with emotion. Her head's bowed, gaze is aimed at her scuffed, dust-covered boots, but she's still walking. Still striding toward me, one arm hanging in a sling. "If they think they've killed the rebellion…well, they're wrong. This is only the beginning, Rex. I can feel it."

I allow myself to take her in, let her fill my entire vision. Once, I would've described her as a girl, a gangly urchin who'd just happened into this war and would make it out unscathed. Now…now she's something more, something far different than I could ever imagine. It's not just her height, her sinewy, curving shape that says she's older than when I first met her; it's her eyes, haunted and clouded and—somehow, some way—resolute.

They are a more than a woman's eyes.

They belong to a warrior.

One Year Earlier

When I finally see Kenobi reappear, he's guiding Skywalker back to the bridge, a hand squeezing the younger man's shoulder. Maybe it's for comfort, to keep his friend from unraveling like a spool of thread, but I sense that's there something else going on that's not blatantly obvious. As if Kenobi's gripping Skywalker like a vice, trying to keep him from losing all grips on reality, to keep him grounded in this world so he won't fade to the next.

"I see that we've already entered hyper-space," Kenobi observes as he and Skywalker arrive beside us. There's grimness to his voice, a frigidity that's so un-Kenobi-like, I feel alarm creeping up my limbs. Something went wrong back there. Terribly wrong. "When did they make the jump, Captain? Just now, or…"

My chest goes taut. "Sorry, sir, but we made the jump about three hours ago. I think the pilots were growing…weary…of Skywalker's absence." Forcing in a breath that my lungs can't possibly hold, I add, "we'll be arriving in Cercan space in roughly half an hour."

This seems to alarm Skywalker, his icy eyes growing huge. Once again, I think I'm seeing something other than the general I know, the man who puts his live on the line to make sure we see another day. I'm merely looking at an animal, of what has roiled and brewed and rotted in his heart for countless years, and I'm instantly afraid he'll explode like that time in the war room. That he'll hurt someone, blow up in ours faces like a super nova.

But all he does is grab Kenobi's shoulder, grip it so hard that Kenobi reacts noticeably. "Tell them. Tell them about what we're REALLY doing."

Bemused, Ahsoka suddenly looks all of her fifteen years. "What do you mean? We're breaking the blockade, aren't we?"

Kenobi shakes his head, face wan as the heart of a dying star. "No. No, they've already done that." His pinches at the bridge of his nose—hard. "According to Admiral Yularen, another fleet was sent ahead to combat the Separatist armada. We're…we're meant to clean up the mess."

I bite down on my tongue, drawing out trickles of bitter, metallic blood. "Meaning?"

"Meaning they've bombed the cities, and they're sending us to sift through the rubble."

Present Day

After living and breathing weapons for most of my age-accelerated life, killing is no longer a conscious thing for me. It's not that I'm cold, inhuman, dead to the pain of others; it's just that I've been programmed, drilled day and night and then some to be unfeeling. To merely react, mull over it only when it hits me in the form of a jolting nightmare.

And that's exactly what I do. I don't kill a woman, extinguishing the fire in her burning umber eyes; I react. I'm just acting on instinct, as it were, not sending a blaster bolt scorching through her skull. Even the stench of burnt hair and flesh will not convince me that I've committed a veritable murder…until I actually see her body, limp and boneless, smack against the ferrocrete.

Because then, I know that thinking's safe. That it won't get me killed. I only have myself to face, my mind spinning with sudden, sickening realization.

Vader didn't send us to kill Ahsoka, or even a rogue Jedi. We aren't here to act as his fist, to be the neat, predictable Imperials Soldiers we think we are, or to exact some sort of twisted revenge. Here, on Cercan, we are grim reapers, heralds of darkness and shadow, executioners mercilessly carrying out their duty.

Except our victims aren't limited to living beings. That would be too safe, too unabashedly human. It would be, in a way, understandable: a tyrant has his grip on the galaxy, and a tyrant is bound to have enemies who need to be taken care of. Instead, we've been sent here to carry out a veritable infanticide, to snuff out a new life before it's decided to breathe.

We're here to extinguish hope, bring it down to the deepest shadows of the grave.

We're here to kill a rebellion.

Two Years Earlier

"I never thought I'd see something like this again," Kenobi breathes, up to his calves in settled ash and debris. He bends down, letting his hand trace the outline of what can only be a charred bone. No, it's not just a bone, not to us. Not to Ahsoka, who's been stunned into a numb silence; not to Skywalker, whose eyes are raw from tears, rimmed with scarlet that burns as brightly as the fire that consumed this land. To us—to them, to me, to everyone who will lay eyes on this scene—it's a part of someone who's been forgotten, and someone we'll never forget.

Skywalker shoots him a meaningful look. "Again?"

The bearded Jedi straightens, expressionless. "When I was younger, I watched a world ripped in two by civil war. Except…" He turns, leaving me starring at his back and drooping shoulders, and sighs. "…Well… we did this. Or at least could've put a stop to it, if we'd known."

"Sir, is there any way of knowing who sanctioned this in the first place?" I ask, picking my way through a maze of warped metal and wires. "The order…where did it come from? And why?"

Skywalker stiffens. "Someone high up in Republic command."

"Really, sir?"

He shrugs, feigning an indifferent, hapless air. "I can only guess, but whoever it is… "

I let his voice fade away, and scowl at a cloud of wafting dust stirred into flight by the shuffling of my boots. Because really, I know it's not simply dust. It's the way of the universe starring back at us, as if the very wind is agreeing with the powers-that-be. Screaming that all things were taken from the soil…and to the soil they'll return.

Epilogue

Two Hours Later

Several eternities soar over us as we explore the ruins of Cercani's capitol, and it's almost surreal when we're told that our job is done. That we're no longer needed. After all, all we have to work with is a dead, ashen orb, a cremated corpse of a world that's been tossed to the whirlwind. And, unsurprisingly, that's not enough to warrant this place even a second thought.

After we're told that our mission is over, complete, we're directed to what I assume is a Justice Building of kinds. Granted, it's no Senate Rotunda, doesn't seem to reach to the sky in one luminous, arching sphere. It doesn't have glory, splendor, prestige; but when it comes to it, this building deserves a standing ovation. Not only has its veined marble walls withstood the bombing, its looks relatively unscathed, is standing as an ivory and silver testament to the foresight and skill of some long-dead architect.

A group of Cercani—soldiers or extremely disciplined vigilantes, I suppose- escort us up the polished stairs to the Building's entrance. They tell us we're guests, that we have someone noteworthy waiting for us inside, a statement which sends Kenobi rushing into what I call his "diplomat state." Composed, gaze steely but not vindictive. Hands folded within the depths of his long, voluminous robe. Annoying the crap out of Skywalker, whose demeanor is still smoldering, tossing up embers into the charged air.

As we reach the inner chambers of the Justice Building, a being steps from the shadows, deep brown eyes regarding us. On our weapons. On the hands that failed to stop the world from burning, burning, burning to infinity.

"You're late," she says, her sharp, tapering face as unreadable as the dreary, smoking world behind us.

And we all know what she means, but no one bothers to acknowledge it. Certainly not Kenobi, who's supposed to maintain that detached Jedi air. Not Skywalker, who looks as though he's locked in a staring contest with a ghost. And not Ahsoka—scared, naïve, too-skinny Ahsoka, who's gripping my arm like a vice. As if she needs to remain grounded to the real world, needs a connection to the present like her master had only hours before.

"Don't worry, little un'," I tell her softly, so that the others won't hear. "We'll leave this place soon enough."

She nods, dazed, as Kenobi engages the dour-looking woman, and I only catch about half of their conversation. This woman…apparently she's the leader of some of rebellion, a tiny uprising that has formed against the Separatist regime. She says they were close—so painfully, painfully close—to overturning the seps, to finally freeing themselves, when THUD! Our bombs rained from the sky, consuming the land in a chorus of reverberating impacts, leaving them without even a shard of hope.

"As you can see," she's saying, gesturing at the spread of dust and debris that is now most of Cercan, "it's over. Of course, you destroyed the Separatists, freeing us from their bondage; but you didn't think to spare us. We're now slaves to a different kind of master, one who we'll work our hands to the bone trying ward off." Her gaze wanders over to Skywalker, hardens. "Thanks to you, we're now slaves to despair."

Squaring his shoulders, Skywalker briefly meets the woman's eyes. He has nothing to say to this, isn't armed with a candle to toss into the abyss. None of us are. We are all convicted hypocrites, heads bowed while we await our sentence from a woman we said we'd come to save, from the world we said would live on to better times.

But even blind men aren't lost forever. They'll stagger around in the dark for a few years, yes, will be imprisoned in a cocoon of darkness for what seems like all of their life. They'll wander about doomed, cursed, condemned—and then they'll stumble into the light. Find that it's not only washing over them, that it's penetrating their very hearts to purge it of blackness.

And the hypocrites won't drown in shame forever, either. There are other planets, places just as hopeless and ruined as Cercan, for us to help. For us to extend our hands to, offering to bring life to a world thought dead.

We'll remember the forgotten ones.

Psalms 9:18: For the needy shall not always be forgotten, and the hope of the poor shall not perish forever.

This story is to be continued in "Though None Go With Me."


End file.
